


the eyes in your mirror

by dreamsoverdeath (dheiress)



Series: eyes [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Dubious Consent, Incest, M/M, POV switches between Tom and Harry without any breaks, Possessive Tom Riddle, Unreliable Narrator, Work In Progress, ambiguous pov, oh look that's a new tag
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-16 15:33:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13056894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dheiress/pseuds/dreamsoverdeath
Summary: She gathered her children close to her bosom, her beautiful boys, kissing their cheeks softly. Oh, her precious babies.Tom and Harry.How close they must be when they're older, she thought as she watched her firstborn clung tightly to his brother even as he fastened his mouth hungrily and possessively onto one of her breasts. How deep their connection, how profound their love will be. Oh, how Merope wished —(In a world where they shared the same womb...well, let's just say things doesn’t change much between one Lord Voldemort and a boy named Harry)





	1. boy, where's your mother

**Author's Note:**

> uhm, yeah...i was rewatching the series and this happened 
> 
> (i'm so sorry Chamber of Secrets is so damning)
> 
> anyway, the incest tag is there for real and not just for decorations so please heed the warnings

“Breathe, child! In, out. In, out. In, out.”

 

One of the women was between Merope’s legs, trying to ease her child out into the world. Another was fluttering around her head, wiping the sweat from her brows. The last of them, the oldest, held her hand through the pain, lips full of encouraging smiles and words.

 

Muggles, these women were.

 

Filth, her father had always called muggles. And yet, it was muggles who helped Merope when even her own kind has spat on her. It was muggles who helped her give birth to the descendant of the great bloodline his father had loved more than her. It was these muggles who gave her the first real touch of kindness.

 

Why couldn’t she have been born a muggle?

 

Why did she have to be born as a witch, a Gaunt—pure-blooded yet utterly powerless, in all manner of the word?

 

 _If I were I muggle,_ she thought, _maybe Tom would have—_

 

But her child—finally, finally leaving her womb after such a labor—cut her thought off with one last agonizing contraction. Belatedly, Merope felt the thick liquids that accompany the little life exiting her dripped down between her thighs. She sagged into the bed the women had gently placed her in, a great buzzing in her ears.

 

“Oh, what a beautiful boy,” the one at her head said as Merope felt a small weight, warm and _hers_ , settle on her chest. A small mouth fervently suckled on her breast and tears unbiddenly sprang from her eyes.

 

(This one was strong, she was sure. Selfishly striving to live, just like what a Gaunt should be—her father would be proud of that will, she thought.)

 

Finally, her— _their_ child.

 

She remembered a time when Tom was still… _in love_ with her. He had caressed her stomach, saying that if they conceived a little one he wanted to name their child after his parents. Thomas, if a boy, or Mary, if a girl. If she tried hard enough, Merope could still feel the ghost of his hands on her skin.

 

She grasped the eldest’s hand tighter.

 

“Please,” breathed Merope, “please name him Tom—after his father—and Marvolo—after mine. Riddle is his last name. Please name him that, please!”

 

The woman softly patted her hand, “yes, child, we will.”

 

Merope would have conveyed her heartfelt thanks if not for the sudden contraction in her abdomen.

 

 _Oh,_ she thought wildly.

 

She heard one of the women said, “There’s another one!”

 

“Oh, look at that,” thrilled the woman whose hand she was grasping, “you have twins, lass! Isn’t that lucky?”

 

Unlike their older brother who announced his arrival with lingering and tormenting pain, this one rushed out of Merope’s womb in one, two, three short contractions without any other fanfare. Merope wouldn’t have even notice the birth if not for that initial spasm she felt. A set of hands gingerly took her elder son from her chest so that her younger child could settle on her for a moment.

 

 _Oh,_ Merope thought, it was another boy with the same nest of inky-black hair as his older brother. They would both look like Tom when they grew up, she thought. She hoped. She cooed tenderly at the child, the child that she didn't even realize was inside her, too. His mouth latched onto her skin gently, as if unsure.

 

(She hoped this one wouldn’t be like her—weak and powerless.)

 

"This one," Merope gasped, eyes desperately locking with the woman's, "this one will be named Harry Morfin Riddle." Morfin, after her brother, who despite his ugliness and hate Merope loved still for they had once shared a womb. And Harry, because—she was uncertain where the feeling came from but it felt _right_ to call this boy that.

 

She motioned weakly for Tom, her arms failing in their strength, and after a torturously long moment, she felt one of the women place him again in her arms. She gathered her children close to her bosom, her beautiful boys, kissing their cheeks softly. Oh, her precious babies.

 

Tom and Harry.

 

How close they must be when they're older, she thought as she watched her firstborn clung tightly to his brother even as he fastened his mouth hungrily and possessively onto one of her breasts. How deep their connection, how profound their love will be. Oh, how Merope wished —

 

 


	2. dirty mind | dirty mouth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They were seven when Tom came up with the idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter titles come from Pretty Little Head by Eliza Rickman.
> 
> Merry Christmas and Happy Reading to you dear readers!

 

They were one when they, like all the other children in that grey place, cried for a mother that was not there.

 

* * *

 

They were two when, after clinging to each other so tightly, they realized they weren’t _one._

 

* * *

 

They were three when the snake came.

 

_“Come play!”_ Harry had babbled, chubby fingers reaching for the pretty, pretty, shiny scales.

 

_“Bite Wilkins first,”_ Tom had added, because Wilkins had the same name as Harry and hated the younger boy for it. Anyone who hated Harry hated Tom who hated back those that hated him.

 

The snake did both, she played and she bit and so they loved her in the way only three-year-olds without a mother could.

 

* * *

 

They were four when Mrs. Cole found their snake.

 

With their fingers intertwined, they had stared at the hammer in her hands, at the dark red mush, sticky but dripping at the same time, already crusting on the heavy, rusted thing.

 

* * *

 

They were five when they noticed Mrs. Cole (and _everyone else_ ) was afraid of them.

 

* * *

 

They were six when they started _borrowing_ the things they wanted.

Harry loved the way Tom would make a gesture with his fingers and what they wanted would fly fast towards them, so fast that whoever had it could not catch it or even see where it has gone.

Tom loved the way Harry would smile, would look up and ask innocent questions while his hands took what they wanted without the person he was talking to even noticing.

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

_But, listen, what matters is this:_

They were seven when Tom came up with the idea.

 

* * *

 

“I’ve been thinking,” he had said, closing their book—the one they _borrowed_ from the library, the one filled with stories about one King Arthur and his knights—with a sharp _snap_ and a sharper look at his brother.

 

“About?” Harry had asked absent-mindedly, lazily drawing a lightning bolt, a broom and a black dog with the bottom half of the green crayon they had salvaged from the disaster that had been Mr. Wickersham’s 55th birthday. His brother made an annoyed sound, pushing aside the scrap of paper Harry had been drawing on with an impatient hand. Their book was dumped between them as Tom sat cross-legged across Harry who was lying on his stomach on the floor. He flipped their book open at the last page where they had both inscribed their names.

 

 

( _and so, it was written in the conclusion_ :

    T. M. Riddle | H. M. Riddle )

 

 

“We should change it,” Tom said, very much proud of his brilliant idea.

 

Harry cocked his head at his brother, a gesture he knew Tom hated. It made him looked like a foolish doe-eyed bird, his brother had said. At seven, Tom already had a vocabulary that rivaled those of the adults around them. Sometimes, Harry felt that if he didn’t know what Tom was thinking all the time, his own brother would confuse him.

 

“The last page of our book?”

 

Tom huffed impatiently, “no, silly! _Our names._ ” Here, he jabbed a forceful, angry finger at T.M. Riddle and H. M. Riddle as if the innocent letters had done something to mock them. Harry blinked at his brother.

 

“But I like our names. Tom and Harry.”

 

“How many Toms do you think there are, Harry? How many Harrys? We should change our names to something, something that belong _only to us—”_

_“Is this about Tommy Marks?_ ” interrupted Harry because sometimes Tom could be more childish than anyone they knew. He had felt the hot irritation swelling up in his chest as if it were his own when the other boy had been introduced by Mrs. Cole. ‘Hello, I’m Tom Marks’ _,_ Tommy had said, ‘but you can call me Tommy if you like’s _._ Tommy had smiled widely, uncaring of the large gap indicating a missing front tooth. Harry had lost one of his molar just the day before that meeting and he had instinctively probed the space with his tongue when he saw Tommy’s front tooth—or rather the absence of one. (Last month, Tom had lost each and every one of his milk teeth in a space of a single week and had gained all of his permanent ones in less time.) Harry had sensed his brother’s teeth grinding down in annoyance as all the children in the orphanage greeted Tommy Marks in a monotonous unison.

 

With his arrival, there were now four Toms and three Harrys in Wool’s.

 

“ _Yes,”_ Tom admitted, albeit reluctantly, “and no. I’ve already been thinking of this for a while.”

 

The matrons had said their mother died giving birth to the both of them, that her last breaths were spent on lovingly naming both of them. Tom thought she should have considered their names more carefully. She should have given them proper names at least, not nicknames of almost every other man here in Britain.

 

 

( _She should have given them **more**. More than names that were useless when so many have the same. More than the names of the men that most likely left her for dead. More than an hour of milk. More than an hour of warmth. _

_More._

_She should have simply been here with them to give them more._

_She should have liv—)_

 

 

“I’ve already thought up of mine,” Tom said as he turned the page backwards, plucking up the scrap of paper tucked between the pages. He pushed the paper towards Harry, a silent explanation to his brother of what he had been working on the past week. He was sure of what he wanted—he would be a lord because people kneel in front of a lord; lords were always special, lords would never die—he just had to think of the _name_. Ignoring the stricken out failures, he showed Harry what he had settled on—what he had enclosed in a secure circle ( _bubble_ ), guarded from everyone else except his other half. Written with the upper half of their green crayon, the letters—

 

 

_(_ —the letters, red like fire, like blood, like anger:

_T O M   M A R V O L O   R I D D L E_

A flick of a wand, like a cut, like a hiss, through the air. The letters rearranged themselves, like a snake shedding its skin, something new from something old, it looked the exactly same but it was so much more

_p o w e r f u l_

_I   A M   L O R D_ )

 

 

_“Voldemort?”_ whispered Harry, cringing involuntarily. There was something about the phrase, about the name, Harry thought, about its strangeness—the letters that were taken from his brother’s name but _not_ his brother’s name—that raised the hairs on the back of his neck. Tom didn’t look as if he had the same reservations about the name like Harry, though. In fact, he was gleeful. As if hearing him say the name made it more real ( _very much alive_ ).

 

“ _The ‘t’ is silent.”_ Tom corrected.

 

“ _It sounds made up,”_ Harry said. Like a magic word someone else made up for kicks and giggles. Like Abra Kadabra. Only, this magic word, it seemed to Harry, was summoned not for laughter but for…something else. Bad things ( _runSNATCHERSRUN_ ). Harry closed their book with a sharp _snap_ paired with a sharper look at his older brother. “I don’t like it,” he said bluntly, despite the irritation he could see growing on Tom’s face.

 

“It’s not made up,” Tom retorted hotly, “I looked it up! It’s in French, it means to fly from death. Harry, don’t you _see,_ _I’m the lord who can fly away from death_ —”

 

_I won’t die like mother, flying away from us on death’s wings,_ he did not say, though it was likely Harry heard it still. They could hear each other’s thoughts, could sense each other’s feelings. Tom knew how Harry felt about their mother. Harry felt it was _unfair_ to blame their mother for dying, no mother would abandon their child willingly was what his brother believed. Tom, who saw the crying kittens in darkened alleyways, who understood why there were so many children here in Wools, thought otherwise.

 

_“She didn’t mean to,”_ Harry whispered, slowly getting up to sit cross-legged on the floor like his brother.

 

_“It doesn’t matter if she meant it or not!”_ shrieked Tom, even as a corner of his mind was urging him to stop, to remember what happened _last time_ he lashed out, “ _she’s dead is the matter—”_

(“—you know? Tommy killed his mum, that’s why no one has ever come to get him, he’s a—”

“—freak _!_ You’re a freak, Harry! You’re only here because you got your own mummy killed—”)

 

—and then they heard something _snap!_ Both of their heads instantly swiveled towards the source of the noise: their window. There was now a large crack scarring the glass pane. As they watched, it continued running from the top left to the bottom right corner. After a beat of horrified silence, they heard another, more worrying sound from the hallway. Hurrying footsteps.

 

Tom swiftly kicked their book and crayons and all the things they borrowed under their bed just as Harry got up and rushed to their window to slap a hand on the glass. _There’s nothing wrong, nothing wrong,_ Harry thought frantically to the glass, willing it to heal itself, to undo its own scar. They hadn’t eaten breakfast this morning or even dinner last night because Martha saw them pushing Tommy Marks into the mud ( _they did, but Tommy pushed Tom first_ ), if Mrs. Cole saw their ruined window, they wouldn’t eat for _a week_ —

 

Their door opened and Mrs. Cole—

 

“Children, what was that noise?” she asked from the opened door, smile stiff and eyes blank. Her eyes jumping back and forth between Harry, who was frozen with a palm sticking on the window, and Tom, who was standing up from his half-crouching stance near the bed.

 

“We were just playing,” Tom said, smiling the innocent smile that Harry always made when they wanted something from an adult.

 

“I heard a sharp noise, like something broke—what’s that under your hand, Harry?” she said this all to Harry, ignoring Tom completely. Tom hated it whenever she does that, act as if Tom weren’t there. They used to be her favorites, now her tolerance for Harry was just a little bit better than that for Tom which was nonexistent at all. He turned to his twin who was still unmoving by the window.

 

“Nothing, Mrs. Cole, we were just playing,” Harry said, offering his empty hands towards her.

 

(The window glass behind him, crack-free.)

 

"I dared Harry to tap the glass loudly, Mrs. Cole, I'm sorry, it was my fault, I should have known better," Tom said, lowering his head and staring at his shoes to act as an apologetic boy. Harry was almost sorry for doing the imaginary dare; he hoped it showed on his face.

 

Mrs. Cole's gaze was piercing, the tips of her mouth slightly pulled downwards. "That wasn't the sound of a tapped glass, Tom. That was a glass…cracking."

 

It was Harry's turn now, "I swear, Mrs. Cole, I just tapped the glass, I didn't crack it, I don't know why it made that sound." And that was the truth. Strictly speaking.

 

If anything, Harry's words only made her frown outright.

 

"Tapped or cracked glass, you both know playing roughly is not encouraged. What would have either of you done if your window breaks?"

 

They both stayed silent.

 

She huffed, shaking her head a bit. "You’re both not allowed to step outside your room until dinner. I'll have Martha bring up both your lunch rations." Without any further word or glance to either of them, she quickly stepped back and closed the door. The lock clicked into place.

 

There was a pause, and then footsteps, walking away.

 

“We don’t want to go out and play with those _stupid children anyway!”_ hissed Tom, his anger like fingers wrapping around Harry’s throat. He paced the small distance of their room, seething and biting his thumb. Harry lightly pressed his fingers around his own throat—thumb, index, middle.

 

One, two, three.

 

Harry sighed, “Have you thought about mine, Tom?”

 

Tom stopped his pacing, looked at the piece of paper crumpled in his fist. “Of course,” he muttered sulkily. Harry smiled. And just like that, all the irritation and anger seeped out of him. He tipped down to their bed and Harry followed him in his fall, the act as instinctive as breathing. Tom’s arm cushioned Harry’s head, his fingers carding through his brother’s hair as soon as the younger settled against him. The elder held out the ball of paper; the younger took and smoothed it out. “Choose what you like, I suppose,” Tom drawled.

 

On the other side of the paper in which Tom remade his name:

 

H ~~A R~~ R Y   ~~M O~~ R F ~~I~~ N   R I D ~~D L~~ E

I   A M   L O R D

H R Y R F N R I D E

 

Harry pointed the ten letters left from his torn name and exclaimed, “Hryfinderr—!”

 

 

(“Gryffindor!” a weathered black hat atop his brother’s blacker curls would shout exuberantly, years and years later, and Tom would frown because that was—)

 

 

“—just _ghastly_.” Tom said, his ‘a’ long and ‘t’s well-tutted. (Lately, he’d taken to copying the talk of private school boys they pass each day on their way to school. He’d been carefully enunciating his vowels, making sure his ‘h’s and ‘g’s didn’t drop. He was prone to overdoing the diction though, just like now.) Harry scoffed, “I like the sound of it.”

 

Tom rolled his eyes, his fingernails digging into Harry’s scalp for a brief moment before pointing out, “There’s the few I’ve considered. What do you think?”

 

 

~~Hryd Irren?~~

Fendihyrr??

Hin der Fyrr???

Hendirfyrr

_Herrinfyrd!_

Harry crinkled his nose, “why are they so…Germanic?”

 

“Well, that’s what I got from your name,” Tom said and there was a definite pout on his lips now so Harry gave in. He tucked his head in the junction between Tom’s neck and shoulder, breathing in the scent of his brother—a scent like the air before a storm, like the cold sheets of their bed. Like Harry himself.

 

_(  I   A M   L O R D  )_

 

He sighed, “I like Herrinfyrd the best.”

 

Tom stared at his brother before wrapping his legs and other arm around him, a makeshift cocoon of scrawny limbs and thin cotton. He softly kissed the top of Harry’s head, humming against the curls as black as ink, as black as his own. Knowing but not accepting.

 

What Harry did not say but Tom heard still was: _but I’d rather be Harry…just Harry._

 

* * *

 

They were seven when this happened.

 

* * *

 

If you don’t know, then you wouldn’t understand.

If you understand, then you would know:

 

They were one when they were _I, me, mine._

They were two and three when they were _we, us, ours._

They were four, five, and six when they were Tom and Harry. Separate but together.  They  were never alone, a _lways together,_ when they were Tom and Harry.

 

But seven.

They were seven when they first knew/felt fear.

 

( “—fear of a name—”

“—a name they would fear—” )

 

Because they were seven when Tom/Harry realized—unconsciously: like a whisper, like a hiss, like a half-forgotten memory— that there would/could be a time that he/Tom would/could go to a place where Harry/he would/could not follow.

 

 


End file.
